Full Circle
by manic-intent
Summary: long oneshot. James encounters a mysterious violinist in an obscure corner of Calcutta. Slash, PrePOTC. Beckett x Norrington
1. Chapter 1

A/N: yup, no sense of self control. Also, as a random note – I actually didn't really enjoy Robbie William's earlier work, up until I purchased the "Swing" CD and fell in love with his jazz songs. This song "Sin, Sin, Sin" was heard on the radio, and isn't jazz, but the lyrics were evocative. Historical inaccuracies.

_Hush hush hush _

_To speak is a sin _

_And neither of us _

_Need rescuing_

James Norrington, in the midst of negotiating a purchase of mangoes from a rheumy-eyed, gap-toothed native of the suspicious variety, paused in the middle of his patient reiteration (_mangoes_ only, not any bloody oranges, and certainly _not_ bananas) at the sound, faintly audible in the thrum of commercial humanity around him, at the very edge of the sprawling bazaar, of a violin.

A rich, pure, trembling tone with a perfect harmony of darkness and light, with a clarity so flawless it would resound with anyone who possessed even a fraction of a musical soul. A sonata in a minor key, played with effortless virtuosity that did not belong in the chokingly crowded business district of Calcutta, punctuated by a dizzying babble of words in various languages, curses, haggling, greetings, permeated by the scent of Indian butter, spices and rank sweat.

Handel.

The fruit seller, sensing an opportunity, pushed the bag of oranges into his hands, and grinned, in a silent promise to extend the issue indefinitely if need be. Curiosity won out over irritation. James paid up. In return, a mahogany-brown finger pointed towards an alley between two pucca houses, with a few words in heavily mangled English and the local dialect. "…white… Saraswati… gift."

The winding, cobbled alley led to an enclave ringed by whitewashed buildings, within which the noise of the bazaar was muted. A tree provided shade from the merciless Indian sun, and James found he was a latecomer to the solo performance. Natives sat on warm cobbles or on neatly stacked crates against the walls, by far the majority, silent, largely elderly men, women and children. He was the only European – other than the violinist.

A small man, eyes closed, before the trunk of the tree, a dancer's fluidity in a boneless sway as elegant fingers and a delicately wielded bow made the instrument sing in a complexity of tone that James had once heard before, in his childhood, in a concert hall in London, taken there as a treat by an eccentric musician-uncle. He remembered the excitable lecture he had sat through in the intermission, the praise of the unique sound that danced like candlelight. Rich, varnished wood sketched with lines of amber.

Intricate riffs connected by flickering timbre. The wind plucked at the violinist's bound, almost-black hair, pulled back tightly to the back of his skull with a gray ribbon. A high forehead furrowed in concentration, thin lips slightly parted. White cuffs rolled to the elbows. A frayed gray coat, neatly folded, on a stool beside the violinist, and a worn, black case. Entranced by music so exquisite that it was almost painful.

He leaned against a whitewashed wall, and resigned himself to the reproach he would have to endure afterwards from a hungry Post Captain with strange cravings for exotic fruit, for being late. Of all places, James Norrington hadn't expected to encounter perfect beauty in Calcutta.

--

Beckett opened his eyes with reluctance after the final, lively chords of one of Handel's sonata da chiesas. He didn't acknowledge the applause from his audience – instead rolling his shoulders to stretch a kink, and playing a quick scale. D major. Another. Simple exercises that signaled the end of his play – some of the regulars of the unasked-for audience were already beginning to leave, stretching and speaking quietly to themselves in their chattering dialects. He was due back in Fort William.

Placing his violin lovingly in the velvet-lined case, then the bow, he snapped it shut. Picked up case and coat. Ramakrishna, his banian, uncurled his lanky form from the branches above and slipped down to the cobbles, yawning. "Already time, young sah?" Exotically accented English. Clear black eyes crinkling into another yawn, disturbing cracks as he stretched out cramped muscle, the ever-present rolled tobacco in a corner of his mouth. A formless, billowing shirt of yellowing cotton was haphazardly tucked into a tattered brown sash at his waist, breeches of the same hue folded into cuffs at dusty ankles pushed into sandals. A scarred hand absently rubbed his domed scalp. Sunlight caught off thick gold earrings.

"You're probably the only person I know who could fall asleep during Handel's sonata in G Minor's allegro," Beckett said dryly, as he settled the coat over an arm.

"You might indeed be gifted by Saraswati like the holy men say, esteemed sah," Ramakrishna grinned, displaying startlingly white teeth at odds with his lascar's appearance, "But I fear that your excellent performance is wasted on my tin ear. And I can fall asleep during anything."

"But eating and cricket," Beckett amended.

"But that," Ramakrishna agreed. "And we are nice and close to the bazaar, and it is your turn to buy lunch."

"I bought lunch yesterday."

"I forget." Innocent black eyes. A pause. "I want…"

"If I'm buying lunch, I choose," Beckett said firmly. Mellowed by music, the mood was too perfect to be spoiled by argument, which was probably why, despite his tin ear, Ramakrishna always followed him around on his break.

He blinked at the sight of a tall European, leaning against the wall near the mouth of the alley. Short, chocolate-brown hair flopped over part of a pale forehead and brushed at expressive green eyes. An aquiline nose that stopped short of sensuous lips curved into a diffident smile. The man was dressed in a simple cotton shirt and brown breeches, black boots – the only hint of who he could be an unadorned sword at his hip. Military, probably, or Navy. He uncurled from the wall when Beckett approached, meaning to push past him. "You're very talented."

"Thanks." Brusque. Beckett didn't want to have to deal with any members of his own race during his break, and it showed in his flat tone.

Unperturbed, the man fell into pace beside him. "And that's a fine instrument you have."

Beckett, half-expecting the next question to be 'What's a musician of your standard doing in India?' (predictable, of Europeans), frowned a little at that statement. Did the man…? His eyes fell down to the plain, buckled sword. Probably not. "Thanks."

The man's next comment made him pull up short. Ramakrishna nearly walked into him. "A Stradivarius."

Beckett stared at him, and then looked him up and down insolently. A nobleman, perhaps… out incognito for a walk, or a collector of curiosities? That exceedingly friendly, cultured tone aroused his animosity. Finally, just as flatly, he said, "It's not for sale."

The man looked startled. "I wasn't asking." That shy smile, again. "Do you play here often?"

"Only on Thurs… ouch!" Ramakrishna staggered back with a yelp as Beckett 'accidentally' stepped back onto unprotected toes. He stared evenly at the man, who now seemed amused, curious.

"I don't appreciate audiences." With that, he brushed past him and into the bazaar, followed by his limping, whining banian.

--

Post Captain 'Bobby' Ramsey accepted his explanation for the lateness of the mango delivery solemnly, his muttonchop moustache quivering as he spoke. "A violinist, you say."

Dressed again in his midshipman's uniform, James nodded, watching as Ramsey, with a reverence that was a little disturbing, began to cut open a mango on a plate with (of all things) a letter opener, on his desk, over a haphazard arrangement of dispatches. Post Captain Ramsey's eccentricity, unfortunately, extended to a filing system based on rather shaky, irrational logic and a whimsical organization of documents that was the bane of the lieutenants and midshipmen under his command.

"Yes, sir."

"Any good?" Watery blue eyes were fixed intently on the sliced mango. One was skewered with the letter opener and reverently consumed. The Post Captain leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes in bliss.

Very disturbing.

"Yes, sir. That was why I was late," James reminded him.

"Ah. Well. Don't do it again," Ramsey said vaguely.

"All right, sir."

Ramsey, despite appearances, was renowned for his perception – in strategy, diplomacy, and in this case, in others – picking out a midshipman's disappointment out of a modulated tone. And again, despite appearances, Post Captain Ramsey was also renowned for the paternal interest he took in his subordinates. One blue eye opened. "If you're sure it's a professional musician, Norrington, the priest at St Anne's is probably the man to ask. He's been trying to build a proper accompaniment to his choir for dog's years, now, probably knows the names of anyone who can pick up a fiddle without hurting themselves within Calcutta."

"Thank you, sir."

"Though… had a blackie with him, you say?" Ramsey mused, his bored mind delighting in the little puzzle, now that his interest was sparked. "But was walking out. Not a nob, then. But don't sound like a banian, dressed like that, more like a lascar. Maybe a clerk at the harbor."

"Didn't seem so, sir. From the attitude."

"Eh, well, remember to ask him the next time, boyo," Ramsey said dismissively, turning back to his mango. Knowing better than to pester the man further, James politely excused himself. The last person who had attempted (despite all warnings) to bother Post Captain Ramsey when the man was eating mangoes had to have stitches.

--

"Silk, I'm telling you, silk," Ramakrishna moaned. "Why more tea?"

"Call it intuition," Beckett said blithely, as they strolled from Fort William to their shared office near the harbor.

"The cut for silk is higher at the moment," Ramakrishna said, reproachfully.

"I think there's a better future in tea," Beckett said, as they stopped to let a noisy procession of servants, shouting out the titles of their master, then a state coach drawn by snorting bays, pass. Decadent gilt and velvet curtains – Beckett's lip twitched, his eyes half-lidding. "Oh, and if we get that price from Dhar, cut the profit margin, use our assets from the last venture. And market it to the masses. England, Manila. We could even try Bombay, as an experiment."

"What?" Ramakrishna peered into Beckett's face, mouth open. "I think the sun baked your brain, oh great and esteemed English sah."

"You'll see," Beckett said absently. He couldn't get that damned shy smile out of his head.

"I _don't _see," Ramakrishna went as far as to prod Beckett in the shoulder. "Selling for that margin is what we've always done. Good profit, yes? Now you want to buy in bulk and sell for lower?"

"Because I want to change our target consumers," Beckett said, batting the hand away irritably. "Because there are more commoners than there are members of the elite."

"They happen to be poorer, too," Ramakrishna said a little sullenly. "And I have a lot of capital invested in your enterprises, esteemed sah."

"I know," Beckett said, looking out over to where the Ganges curled in a flat, lazy blue strip in the distance towards the bustling harbor. Warships anchored further out broke up the horizon. "But the point, as you know, is not to be content with simply small profit."

"It's not to be ruined, either," Ramakrishna whined. "You want to be a rich man? So do I, sah. I think you smart, I be your banian. But you slowly going crazy, you know?"

"Call it ambition," Beckett arched an eyebrow at him. "Come now, when have I let you down?"

Ramakrishna muttered to himself in his native dialect for a moment – Beckett picked out the words '_chariya, chariya_', then the lean shoulders squared under the yellowing shirt. "Ayyyy! Fine. But you pay for dinner."

--

Reverend Paul frowned at the midshipman before him and adjusted his monocle. "A violinist, you say? Of caliber? Possessing a Stradivarius? Performing Handel? My dear young man, I can assure you that it would have come under my notice, had someone with sufficient means to acquire a _Strad_, and possessing such musical aptitude as you describe, had come to Calcutta. Why are you looking for this man, anyway? Is he in some sort of trouble with the Navy?"

"No, nothing of the sort," the midshipman – Norrington, Paul recalled, a little vaguely – he wasn't particularly good with anyone who wasn't part of his regular flock, the choir, or a musician. "I was just curious."

"How did you know it was a Stradivarius?" the Reverend asked, then he brightened visibly. "Could it be that you yourself play the violin?"

"No," Norrington said quickly. "I don't play any instrument. My uncle, in London, is an enthusiast, however, and he is rather obsessed with violins."

"Oh." Bored, the Reverend shrugged, wandering across the narrow aisle between the wooden pews to a small desk against a wall, where he located spare paper, quill, and inkbottle in a drawer, and wrote down some names. "Here's the people in Calcutta who, to my knowledge, have some middling ability at the fiddle."

"Thank you, sir," the midshipman reached out his hand for it. The Reverend pulled the paper out of reach.

"Ah, _ah_. It's in exchange."

"For?"

"I don't have much free time," Reverend Paul said, "And certainly no time to go about ferreting out mysterious virtuosos in this melting pot. If you do find him, do your utmost to persuade him to come here for introductions."

"Of course." The midshipman took the paper, and paused, almost as though there was something else on his mind.

"Yes?"

"Um. Nothing. Thanks for your help, sir."

"Good day, young man."

--

Beckett was annoyed to see, at the end of one of Scarlatti's _Exercizi_, the tall man with the ramrod posture and the plain sword leaning against the wall in the enclave. He hadn't seen the man enter the area when he had started, and had rather hoped that he wouldn't come. As he stretched, he sent a death glare up into the boughs, but Ramakrishna was asleep. Whoever he was, the man looked as though he was still recovering from a run – his white shirt was soaked, and he was slightly out of breath. The man smiled shyly and waved when Beckett looked back at him, which made the musician snap his gaze away, sharply.

He took a deep breath, and began to play scales. His audience murmured, a little startled at the early conclusion, but lingered up until he had worked his way up to A major, at which point they left in disappointment. Beckett placed the violin and bow in the case, and looked up to the boughs, his voice sharp. "Ramakrishna. We're going." A snore. Irritably, Beckett looked around for any sort of small object with which to pelt his companion awake, and realized with a start that the tall man had walked up to him, looking apologetic.

"I'm sorry. I knew you said you… well, but the natives… but I wanted to listen. Came straight here from the office… thought I might miss the, um… recital." Beckett felt that the stammer was adorable, than inwardly kicked himself for thinking so. He looked at the tall man thoughtfully – he had to be in his early twenties, or so.

"Military, or Navy?" he asked.

"Navy, sir." The man blinked. "How did you…"

"Your posture, the sword, your manner of speech," Beckett said, dismissively. "Your hair, your shirt, your hands."

The man, as he expected, glanced down at his hands. Calluses from sword work and rope. "Oh. That's remarkable."

"Trivial." Flatly. "Don't come back next week."

A spark of ire in green eyes. Finally. "Why? But you let…"

"I have my reasons," Beckett said, lacing his words liberally with disdain. The man opened his mouth. "And I'm not interested in your name, nor am I giving mine to you." The mouth closed. "Good day."

"Let me buy you lunch," the man (a marine, then) offered, unperturbed. The shy smile was back.

Beckett growled, "Not interested," just as Ramakrishna slipped out of the tree with a whoop. "Free lunch!" He looked confused when Beckett glowered at him. "What?"

He was pointedly silent during a lunch of (what Ramakrishna had said was called) aloo paratha, while his companions chattered about the silk trade, the French incursions, and the religious significance of the Ganges. Ramakrishna, at least, had the good sense not to discuss any personal details, or indeed give any name outside of his own. They sat on unguarded grates on the outskirts of the bazaar – Beckett's prized possession on his lap, the coat folded over the case to shield it against potential instances of wayward gravy. Beckett bit almost viciously into the Indian bread, wrapped around flavored potato and onions, setting his eyes firmly on the cobbles.

When the marine finished, he glanced up at the sky. "Oh. I have to go."

"See you next week," Ramakrishna said cheerfully, "Especially if you buy lunch!"

Beckett bared his teeth, but waited until the marine had gone before muttering, "What the devil are you doing?"

"Hey, a free lunch is a free lunch, sah," Ramakrishna said innocently. "I wonder how big his budget is?"

"He's probably only a petty officer at most," Beckett said dismissively. "Too young, no confidence."

"Faced you down easy enough, sah," Ramakrishna grinned, flashing pearly white teeth. "I like him!"

"That's because he bought you lunch. You know why I'd rather not have any…"

"Don't look like he told anyone, did he?" A sly grin. "I say we take our free lunches, and when he does tell, I just be putting out notice that the performances be moving. No worry. Try to see if he can treat dinner too, eh?"

"Ramakrishna…"

"Until the next shipment arrives safely, I think we have a little cash flow problem," the Bengali merchant said, a little more quietly. "And, well, I must say I'm a little worried about your next idea. So…"

"A little bit goes a long way?" Beckett's lips quirked.

"Call it superstition," Ramakrishna winked. "But I think we should just take whatever luck may offer."

"You're reading a little too much into a free lunch."

"Eh, you know how it is with me, sah. Food is my religion. Maybe cricket."

"I buy you lunch. A lot."

"We're business partners, sah. Not counted by far."

--

After the third blank look from men in the list that Reverend Paul had provided, James decided he was definitely looking in the wrong place. The mystery violinist evidently disliked European company, at least when he was performing. That meant that he probably kept his ability a secret, at least from the European community, and likely only performed in places where there were few, if any, Europeans.

He located the mangoes-and-oranges seller in another corner of the bazaar, and this time bought the damned oranges without having to argue. "The violinist, what do you know about him?" he asked the gap-toothed man.

The man looked blank. "Vy-yin?"

Words occurred to James. "The one you said had… Saraswati's gift. White."

This time, the blank look seemed contrived.

James parted with some coin.

A bright smile. "Saraswati, gift! You want to see. To listen."

"Yes, yes. Who is he?"

"White… white man. Short. Hair… coffee, coffee hair."

"Yes, I know what he looks like," James said patiently. "I meant, do you know his name?"

"Saraswati, gift."

"Er. Right. Do you know where I can find him?"

"There, on fourth days," the man pointed at the alley. "Today second day. Third day, third day sun… sun down, Kalighat."

"Kalighat?"

The man beamed. "Kalighat Kaali. Temple. Hooghly. Ayyy! You find Saraswati's gift." A pause, then hopefully, "Bananas? You like bananas?"

--

"You don't have to go, you know, if the temple bothers you," Ramakrishna said mildly, after the fourth snappish reply at perfectly neutral topics of conversation.

Beckett sighed. "I… damn, I apologize. It's the temple. And the priests… er, the Sevayats."

"You just react to the presence of Kali," Ramakrishna shrugged. "You being who you are, of course, sah." He held up his hands quickly as Beckett glared at him. "Sorry, sorry. No mention of Saraswati. Right."

"I may be willing to go through this very odd compulsion of your people to regard me as being gifted by the divine, for business purposes," Beckett said irritably, "But I'd be damned if you have to start blathering to me about it."

"Yes, yes," Ramakrishna said anxiously, as they walked towards the Hooghly river. The residential area was thinning out into sacred ground, and the bald Bengali merchant was looking a little shifty. "Sorry."

For a temple that commanded this much reverence amongst the folk of Calcutta, it was really just a hut next to a river, accompanied by a few trees, and a courtyard of swept sand. Which was filled with natives of different castes, genders and ages, arranged into a semicircle by a few wrinkled men in white dhotis and sarongs. Beckett grimaced. "It's getting worse."

"Uh… yes, sah." Ramakrishna was looking remarkably shifty, even for the surroundings.

Beckett narrowed his eyes. "You didn't…"

He looked innocent. Too innocent. "Why, sah…"

"What did you do?" Irritably.

"I could have told some… friends, of mine… uh… and they told other friends… ayyy… don't kill me…"

Beckett paused in his attempts to strangle his business associate at the sight of a familiar tall frame, at the tree, partially hidden behind the press of dark bodies and dirty dhotis. Chocolate-hued hair ducked quickly as the marine realized he had been spotted. Beckett took in a deep breath.

"Sah… you can't just walk off," Ramakrishna said hurriedly, following Beckett's gaze and guessing his train of thought. "Ayyy… some of these merchants, coffee business…"

"They'd base my ability to do business on my musical aptitude?" Beckett arched an eyebrow skeptically.

"No… ehh… but someone favored by Saraswati… eheh… that's different… ayyyy… don't kill me…." Ramakrishna hid quickly behind one of the beaming, wrinkled men. Beckett sighed. The man had a point. Not one that he really wished to swallow, but…

He folded his coat on the rickety stool provided, and opened the case.


	2. Chapter 2

_Sin sin sin _

_Look where we've been _

_And where we are tonight _

_Hate the sin not the sinner _

_I'm just after a glimmer _

_Of love and light_

When the violinist lowered his instrument with shaking hands from his neck, it seemed as though a spell was broken – the audience let out a collective murmur. Glances up at the sky and back at the city – darkness, lit candles previously placed in an eerie perimeter around the courtyard. The violin was placed into the case before he accepted a cup of water from one of the elderly men in white clothing, which he drank down in one sitting, pushed the cup back into wrinkled hands, and coughed. His compatriot – Ramakrishna – slapped him on the back, then turned to speak to some natives dressed in dhotis of varying colors, while others began to stroll back to town.

The violinist was shivering, despite the warm night. The wrinkled men seemed to be addressing him in low tones, in their own dialect. He shook his head, exhaled, and shook his head again.

James approached as unobtrusively as possible, not wanting to seem threatening, but the violinist, seemingly dazed, didn't notice his presence until he was right next to him. There was a yelp, then unfocused dark eyes narrowed. "You."

James tried his best smile. Unfortunately, although he had intended to say something intelligent about the Marini sonatas that the violinist had treated them to, the words refused to navigate his tongue. "Um. Hi. Warm night."

A piercing, disdainful stare, then the violinist turned away and picked up his case. "Yes." He glanced over at Ramakrishna. "Finished?"

The bald merchant waved a little frantically, glancing at them. "One moment, sah!" Heads were bent back down to a rapid-fire conversation in dialect. The violinist sighed.

James forced his throat to attention. "I liked the Madrigaletti best."

The smaller man arched an eyebrow at him, and the temperature seemed to drop further. "Don't you have somewhere to go, marine?"

"Eh… I was wondering if I could buy you a drink." The words came out in a rush.

"I don't think so." The tone was positively glacial now. "Good night."

"Um…"

"Did that priest send you?" Fingers were raked absently through dark hair.

"Not… not really." James looked a little embarrassed. "I did ask him some questions, but he claimed not to know anything, and, er… that is to say he gave me a list of unhelpful names. In exchange that I try to persuade you to attend an interview with him. If you want."

"Good Lord, no," the violinist looked away, at the small hut behind them. "I'll never get any peace, between him and the natives with that strange little superstitions."

"Well… er, listening to you play, I can easily believe that you were gifted by some higher power," James smiled winningly. The cold mask didn't budge.

"It's the Strad," the man said, stroking the case absently.

James was interrupted in his protest by a sudden ring of dusky men in colorful dhoti, all of whom wanted to shake the violinist's hand. Sensing there was no real way he could speak to the man again tonight, he bowed slightly, and left.

--

"He's early," Ramakrishna observed, up in the tree.

Beckett paused in finger exercises to glare up into the boughs, whispering in a hiss, "And whose fault is that?"

The marine was out of breath, against the wall, though this time hiding (or attempting to hide) in the shadow of the alley. Some of the native audience who filed in shot him unfriendly stares, recognizing him for the reason the previous recital had been cut short.

"_Chal chal!_ Aiee… I didn't think he'll really… eeh… I can tell him to go away, if it's really bothering you, sah."

"I've tried. Repeatedly," Beckett muttered, repeating the simple exercises. The Stradivarius turned each simple successive note into miniature works of art with rich, vivacious embellishment. "But don't bother. I think he's harmless."

"Eeh… he's a _chapterr_."

"Foolish? Possibly. Strange? Definitely." Beckett shut out the world with its odd marines, and studied Uccellini and the sixth position.

Later, when the marine offered (with that damned shy smile) to buy lunch, Beckett glanced up into the branches. He could sense Ramakrishna was awake, but being placatingly silent. He sighed, then dipped his head. "I want phuchka."

Despite the marine's insistent overtures, Beckett refused to speak during the meal.

--

James was rather aware that the initial curiosity over the mystery was turning into obsession. It was only lucky that his disappearances every break to wander about town trying to catch strains of a masterfully crafted violin was brushed off in the offices – everyone simply assumed that some girl about town had caught his eye. James endured the good-natured jibes with enigmatic smiles, preferring the rumor to the reality. It wasn't only the fact that the violinist clearly valued his privacy – it was that this was _his_ secret.

He did rather think the Post Captain suspected something, though – occasionally, over dispatches, there would be a harrumph, and an amused, "Seen any violinists lately, boy?" or a "By the by, the Reverend asked after you." James would smile, and shake his head.

It seemed nobody knew where the violinist was on the weekends. Fridays' recital was usually in an alcove in a back of a ratty bread and breakfast known for strong coffee, but by the time he had found out about that, the man was gone. The attendants in Kalighat knew nothing, and the fruit seller, in exchange for more coin, directed him to a potter, who (for more coin) gave him a list of locations for Monday and Tuesday recitals.

It was fast becoming, for his midshipman's pay, an expensive obsession.

Nobody knew his name or precise occupation, only that charity (or donations, or gifts) were always politely but firmly refused. The white sir, it seemed, the one blessed by Saraswati, was like a spirit, a zephyr, of music.

The man's companion – Ramakrishna – was just as difficult. It turned out the name was extremely common – James might as well attempt to track down specific John Smiths, in London. Other than the fact that he was either a lascar or a merchant (probably the latter, judging from the man's surprising depth of knowledge about commerce), there was very little to go by.

On Saturday, to James' irritation, reports of sightings of French Naval activity galvanized the office into action, and he was off to sea, aboard Ramsey's _Furious Angel_. Normally, he welcomed this sort of work above all else, on the decks, in the rigging, at the cannon crews, but the distraction affected his joy in the sea.

He found himself whistling Marini.

--

"Did you tell him to go away?" Beckett asked, as they walked out of the bread and breakfast, full from generous portions of rice and curried fish.

"Who?" Ramakrishna blinked a little sleepily.

"The marine."

"Oh, the strange one. No." A little frown. "Ah… he hasn't been around lately, sah."

"That's why I asked."

A grin. "Miss him?"

A glare.

"Okay, okay. Heheh. Eeh, he is Navy, right? The French, they causing problems at the moment, you heard?"

"Oh." Beckett wondered why he suddenly felt relief. "I see."

"More importantly," Ramakrishna said, cheerfully, "Remember Savadjee Dutta? He say he sell us tea, the price you want. A little lower, in fact, sah. We can get the shipment out, and he know trusted contacts in Southampton with a reasonable cut."

"I'd need to talk to Mister Dutta."

"Thought so. We meeting him at his house for dinner. Eh…"

"You want me to bring the violin."

"Ayyy… don't kill me…"

"Ramakrishna."

The man had the grace to hang his head. "I said, eeh, to him, that you didn't like the… well, but his wife, she is very religious. Without her I don't think Savadjee Dutta agree to your plan – like me, he think, sell to common, that risky." When Ramakrishna was nervous, his accent got heavier and heavier.

Beckett shook his head. On one hand, he was aware that to sell in sufficient bulk, he would need several suppliers, and would definitely need more contacts in London. On the other hand, it really felt, somehow, that he was tarnishing his Stradivarius.

Still, musicians all over the world sold themselves for their art, commercialized themselves, or turned into the pets of the rich, powerful or blue-blooded. This was really just a somewhat odder way of doing so, wasn't it?

But given that part of the reason why he refused to perform in front of his peers was that he didn't want to 'sell' his music… he was already a little uneasy of how the natives here seemed to treat it, especially on Wednesdays.

He would, however, as a junior member of the Company, need some way to get a foot in the door, so to speak. And what with that business with his family, he did rather need the capital. And Ramakrishna, at least, had been placing a lot of faith in his ideas.

"I'll bring the violin."

There was an exhalation of relief.

"But you're going to buy dinner. For a week."

"… ayyyy…"

--

It was a Tuesday morning when _Furious Angel_ docked for repairs. James endured the attentions of headquarter's surgeon for the cutlass wounds on his arm and flank, then ignored stern calls for rest, changing and walking out of the building after checking on the unconscious Post Captain. There had been few injuries for a battle that could have gone so badly – they had been boarded, and the Post Captain had been shot in the back while slicing a few enemies to ribbons. Thankfully, it had been the shoulder, and James and Lieutenant Delbie had been close at hand – one to drag him to the captain's cabin, the other to stand guard.

Delbie had been cut down before reinforcements finally caused the French Navy to retreat. Due to the Indian heat, the funeral was tomorrow. The wounds ached dully as James wondered how Ramsey would take that – Delbie had been his favorite.

He was early, but still got a little lost in the winding streets. Directions from helpful natives turned him to Chatterjee Street, and finally to a nondescript, partially open air building already thronging with men of color, all talking at the same time. Dhotis of different color and quality. Men of different castes. James, feeling a little self-conscious, hesitated at the doorway, then blinked when dark fingers suddenly plucked at his white sleeve.

A grinning face of a short, plump native – yellow turban, prodigious beard, and startlingly red dhoti and sarong. "A white man in a house of _adda_," the man was saying, in heavily accented English. "Incredible, incredible. Would you like to join our table, good sir? Ayyy… for we were just about to discuss English, _chal chal_…"

Bemused, James allowed himself to be pulled to a rickety square table, around which eight grinning men already sat. A chair was pulled up, and he shook hands, was patted on the back, and firmly pushed into the chair. Food was ordered. James found himself pulled into an only partially English, heated debate about the artistic quality of religious symbols in paintings, and the concurrent value they brought to the piece. Ten minutes into the discussion, he felt decidedly out of place, conscious of his ignorance, and ate the proffered phuchkas quickly, to give him an excuse to be politely quiet. His mention of Bernini's sculptures, vaguely remembered from overheard discussions between his uncle and his whist artist partners, sparked an avalanche of excitable and only partially understandable questions.

It was to his relief that a small, sturdier table was pulled into a cleared circle in the middle of the room, and a familiar, slight frame wove through the crowd towards it, carefully holding a battered black case to his chest. The chatter went unabated until he climbed onto the table, helped up by Ramakrishna. The first notes of the finger exercises – a long, perfect intonation with delicate use of the bow – lowered the thrum of conversation several notches in volume.

--

Beckett sat cross-legged on the table and drank coffee, his case in his lap. The hum of human debate resumed, unceasing, and he was glad that Ramakrishna was at hand to stave off curious men. He wasn't in the mood to handle broken English, at the moment.

The deal from Dutta had come with a catch – it was strongly suggested that he make himself available to play for Dutta's associates, whenever the merchant required it. Sensing his associate's blackening mood, Ramakrishna had hurriedly said they would think about it, and they had beat a quick retreat. Outside, on the way back, Beckett had told him in no small terms exactly what he thought of that idea.

They were chasing up a few other potential lines of business, at the moment. At least the cinnamon deals seemed to be going through, without any issue of his music – the spice merchants, as a whole, were far more impressed with his detailed plans than with his ability at the fiddle. Still, he knew – _knew_ – that real money was in tea.

He hadn't been expecting a diffident, "Good afternoon," in familiar, crisp English, and nearly spilled his coffee. A sharp glance to his right showed the marine, looking slightly battered – the folds of his shirt suggested bandages, and his face was drawn slightly in pain – but all smiles, standing next to the table. "I wasn't sure you'd be here."

"They talk through the music," Beckett shrugged. "I may be vain, but I don't like it. Still, they do have the best phuchkas, and we get treated, especially of late." He realized that he was almost being friendly – affected by the odd sense of relief at seeing the marine around again, and his lip curled down. "Shouldn't you be at the hospital?"

The marine looked down at his arm, obscured by a sleeve. "You noticed?"

"Obviously. You're favoring your arm and whatever happened to your back is affecting your posture." Beckett said, before he remembered that he was trying to be unfriendly. He hunched his shoulders, pulled his eyes away, and drank coffee. A plate of phuchkas arrived, delivered by an overawed, veiled girl. He ate.

"Only scratches," the marine said, dismissively. "But, er… how are you?" There was a slight flush to pale cheeks, as the man seemed to realize how facile that question was. Beckett smirked, and didn't answer, ignoring him. Eventually, the man went away.

--

James was accosted by the Reverend next Sunday, having actually shown up for services to pray for an uncomplicated recovery of Post Captain Ramsey, and was hustled into a private study. "Well, young man?"

"Um… what, sir?"

"The violinist, boy, the violinist. Have you found anything about him?"

"Er…" James found it was exceedingly difficult to lie to a priest, let alone one who was obviously intelligent.

Brown eyes widened in the narrow face, and there was thoughtful smile. "Remarkable! Remarkable. And I suppose he isn't on that list I gave you. Still, did you ask him to look for me?"

"Yes, sir. But he said he wasn't interested, that he was busy." James said quickly. "Also, he refused to give me his name, or any personal details."

"Intriguing." The Reverend pulled at his wispy beard, folding the other hand over his white robes. "That's very odd. Obviously not a violinist by profession, then. And by his clothes, likely middle or working class. But how would someone of that sort of class acquire a Strad and the means with which to play it with such finesse as you describe? Know Handel? Hmm. Very curious. Very curious."

"Uh… so you believe me?" James blinked. "That there is such a violinist, that is."

"I am a musician myself," the Reverend Paul said impatiently, "And there is a look about you, young man, that can come only from regular enjoyment of enrapturing music." He brightened. "So you definitely know where he holds his outdoor recitals."

James hesitated. "He made it clear, I'm afraid, that he didn't want to speak to you, sir. He was convinced that you would instantly try to… er… well…"

"I don't have to speak to or see him to listen, young man," the Reverend said, dryly. "There must be a way to hide, in one of those places."

James thought of the ageing Reverend, with his air of careful dignity, in a clerical collar climbing into a barrel, for a moment, absolutely randomly, and couldn't help but grin. "How well do you get along with the natives, Reverend?"

--

Beckett sat on the fence with Ramakrishna and watched the jockeys exercise their snorting steeds with a faint smile. He loved the proud animals, even though they reminded him of a forgotten life in England – loved their beauty, speed and grace.

"Want to bet, sah?" Ramakrishna grinned, watching a chestnut mare shake out her mane with a spirited whinny.

"We have money?" Beckett raised an eyebrow.

"… not really," Ramakrishna admitted. "But we should, in a couple of weeks or so, from cinnamon. And then you'd want to invest it in something else."

Beckett chuckled. "We've enough to live by."

"Well… it would be nice to have some money," Ramakrishna groused, "It's not just comforts, it opens doors, as well."

"That seem to be opening just fine, due to that absurd moniker."

"Ayyy… but… well, you don't like to…"

Beckett nodded. "Yes. I don't like arrangements like Dutta's."

"Fair enough," Ramakrishna nodded. "Heh… but I wish I could be paid to eat."

"Eating for the sake of something other than enjoying the food? Whenever someone else dictates that you do?"

"Mm." Ramakrishna thought this over. "Eeh. I think I see your point, sah. Maybe it not so good."

A colt raced past, in high spirits and a tossing tail – Beckett chuckled in pleasure. His banian smiled. "Someday if we come into big money… you buying into horses, sah?"

"I'll definitely look into acquiring a decent stable," Beckett agreed. "Perhaps some blood from Araby."

"Hah… desert horses! You better hope the big money is really big," Ramakrishna laughed.

"What would you do with money?"

"Use it to get more money. Marry. Big house, much food. Have many children. Perhaps name a couple of them after a strange English sah with a violin."

"Really?" Beckett smirked.

"I think with a few changes to your name, sah, it'd fit a girl," Ramakrishna nodded sagely. His companion snorted.

--

James left the priest sequestered in one of the rooms in the bed and breakfast, and went down to the taproom. He was early, and technically should have been on duty, but the Reverend commanded a remarkable amount of weight in the Naval presence in Calcutta, for reasons James couldn't fathom, and he had been let out on his break early. Lieutenant Ezra, when pressed, said something vague about how he was injured, how there was nothing to do at the moment with the French threat beat soundly back, and how everyone was really only interested in whether Ramsey would recover fully and didn't he have somewhere to go?

The fish curry was really good.

He looked up when the violinist entered the now-crowded room, and walked to the cleared table which held a cup of coffee and water, but the man pointedly didn't look at him. The musician took out his violin, turned a chair around, sat down, and, with only the barest attempts at warming up, began with Bach to absolute silence.

The effect was incredible. Wednesdays, the background of the river and the sound of nocturnal creatures disrupted the tone – Thursdays, the faint background of the bazaar, and Tuesdays, the noise in the adda house. Silence brought out the full force of sound.

Enraptured, James forgot about the priest, his wound, his worry over the Post Captain, and lost himself to music.

It wasn't the Stradivarius – not entirely. The natives were right, perhaps – there was something about the violinist, in his control, his grace, his sensitivity. Something other that was indefinable. Divine, perhaps. He wasn't sure who had come up with the moniker, but "Saraswati" was murmured in the crowd, at the end of the first sonata. The violinist drank a gulp of cooling coffee, and played Marini.

When he closed with scales, James had to stretch out a cramp in his back, wincing at the sharp pain from the wound as he got to his feet. The violinist eyed him with annoyance as he approached, secreting the violin into the case as he dug into the innkeeper's offerings of Indian bread and fish curry. Ramakrishna was the one to grin at him when he sat at the table. "Eeh… the marine. How's the Navy? Gave the French a sound seeing to, sah?"

James found himself discussing French expansionary tactics with someone who seemed by all appearances a lascar, while the violinist ignored them both. Ordinarily, such a pointed display of unfriendliness would have made him back off long ago, but he was now rather wryly aware that the curiosity was indeed obsession.

Besides, he was also aware, a little to his consternation, that it wasn't only the music and the violin that he found beautiful.

--

Beckett glared at the marine when the tall, thin Reverend was waiting for them outside the inn. The man looked shocked – he frowned at the priest, then looked at Beckett with an expression of such plaintive apology that he almost relented. Almost. He growled, and attempted to ignore the priest, furious with the marine and feeling oddly betrayed.

Reverend Paul stepped into his path, and grasped his free hand with both of his wrinkled ones. Beckett realized to his consternation that the man's eyes were bright with what could only be tears. "Good day, Reverend," he said, cautiously.

"I'm very sorry," the Reverend said quickly, "The midshipman told me I had to stay hidden, and that I shouldn't have come in the first place, but I'm afraid I insisted."

Midshipman. Hm. Petty officer. Being right, however, didn't in any way assuage his anger. "I see." Flatly. "Well. I suppose I shouldn't have expected someone I'm only barely acquainted with to keep a secret."

"I'm afraid I'm terribly unrelenting," the Reverend admitted. "But your delivery of Marini was exquisite. Beyond anything I've heard, even in England."

"If you're trying to…"

"Oh no, good sir," the Reverend let his hands go, ducking his head in a wry smile. "I'm afraid that any accompaniment that I can manage to arrange here, any choir, would only be a detriment, rather than enhance your music. Perhaps there would be very few appropriate, even in London."

Rather taken aback by the effusive praise, Beckett blinked. "Oh."

"Perhaps someday you could come down to the church for tea," the Reverend smiled, "And your banian, too."

He blinked again. The priest was perceptive. "Perhaps." Neutral.

"I dabble a little in commerce, sometimes, for the maintenance of St Anne's," the Reverend said, wiping at his eyes. "And perhaps you might be interested in some… contacts, that I could point out." A lopsided smile. "Just to help out a poor musician, you see."

Beckett caught the subtext, and smirked, his anger partially forgotten. "Of course. Thank you, Reverend."

"Anytime," the Reverend smiled, and looked at the midshipman with mild surprise. "Oh, you don't have to look at me like that, young man."

Beckett and Ramakrishna hastily slipped away, while the marine was occupied.


	3. Chapter 3

Oh it hurts 

_When you're to blind to see _

_What about us _

_Well it was just for me_

James was aware that he was firmly in the violinist's bad books, now, although Ramakrishna was still cheerfully friendly. A banian – that meant that the violinist was really a merchant, likely part of the East India Company. It didn't help him much – the Company likely wouldn't be much inclined to allow him to go through their records in search of someone whose name he still didn't know.

A week went past, with the violinist staring at him coldly whenever he made overtures, apologized, or even smiled at him. It was beginning to affect his work – he found himself often distracted in the office, and he was aware that dark hollows were beginning to develop under his eyes.

It _hurt_.

Knowing that the violinist was angry with him – felt betrayed, probably, at that – hurt. So much that he could only sleep fitfully at night, wake with choked moans at the memory of accusing, dark eyes and an icy sneer of disdain. He stopped approaching the violinist after recitals – a sharp glance in his direction would be enough for him to retreat. Sometimes, James wished that he could stop going. The music was beautiful, but it was a terrible beauty, now. Reminding him of something he couldn't have.

The Reverend pulled him away after one Sunday service, looking solemn once they were in private. "You're not sleeping well, young man?"

"I'm fine," James muttered.

The man had the grace to look embarrassed. "It's the… well, it's the violinist, and that time I…"

"Yes," James said, simply. There was too much pain, which he barely understood, to make room for envy. Whatever that the violinist and the banian had spoken to Reverend Paul about, he was now a cautiously welcome member of the audience.

"Ah. You see, I am sorry, but the music was just so… well. The first time you heard it, could you just have walked away, without talking to him?"

James thought about that, then admitted, "No. But if I had promised someone else to…"

"Yes. I broke my word," the Reverend Paul said, heavily, "And for that I will make reparation."

"How?"

The Reverend smiled paternally. "You are both young men, and I have much experience with advising intractable young people, in my flock. I am sure I can persuade him to stop being stubborn. Give me… oh… two days or so, then approach him again at the next recital. Kalighat, wasn't it, for Wednesdays?"

--

Beckett was feeling irritable. And it had nothing to do with a green-eyed marine with kicked-puppy expressions. Or the guilt. Which had nothing to do with said kicked-puppy expressions. No, it had entirely to do with a _lecture_ about guilt and said marine, couched with carrots and sticks, delivered by a damn priest who had a remarkable amount of influence in the white commercial world within Calcutta.

He did, however, have really good macaroons.

"It really is a small favor," Ramakrishna ventured, when they walked out of the rectory. "And we do need his word in with…"

"Yes, yes, yes, _yes_," Beckett snarled.

Ramakrishna shut up hastily.

At least, he did so for a street or so, which was already pretty much a miracle already in Beckett's books. He had never met anyone with such a love for his own voice, really. "Phuchka? My treat."

Beckett arched an eyebrow. "That has to be a first."

"Eheh… well… anything to cheer you up, sah," Ramakrishna said, slapping him gingerly on the shoulder. "You've been like a tiger with a toothache since… ayyyy… don't kill me…"

Having to make way for an oncoming elephant saved Ramakrishna from being throttled. Beckett contented himself with a steely glare.

_Go for drinks with that young man tonight._

Well. He supposed it really couldn't hurt.

And he did need that damned priest's patronage – discussions outside of the delicacy of Handel's sonatas compared to Marini's had touched on the issue of commerce in England. And merchants of color could only do so much.

--

James managed to pluck enough courage to approach the violinist after a series of rather furious interpretations of Marini. The offered cup of water was downed with an angry jerk of the wrist, and James fought the sudden impulse to cower when the man glowered at him. He dropped his gaze quickly. "Sorry."

Dryly. "You know, being this meek would get you nowhere in the Navy."

James looked up. The irritation was still there, but it was being carefully suppressed. The violinist packed, then arched an eyebrow at him. "Well?"

James smiled, feeling much of the tension that he had been holding within him since the incident at the bed and breakfast begin to ebb away. "Can I buy you a drink?"

The violinist smirked, and turned to Ramakrishna, who was talking to some members of the audience. "I'm going first."

"Sure. See you later," the banian said, without looking around.

James fell into step beside him as they walked back towards town. When they were nearly back in the main thoroughfares, he said, "Look, I…"

"You're not forgiven," the violinist interrupted flatly. "I'm supposed to let you buy me a drink, that's all."

"Ah." James supposed he wasn't surprised that the Reverend had been the cause of the violinist's sudden compliance – after all, the priest had intimated that he would do as much. He let out a deep, heartfelt sigh. "If you actually don't want to… I mean, if you don't want to talk to me… that is…"

"Here we are." The violinist stopped outside an alley, and walked into it. Another turn, and they were at the entrance of a decidedly seedy tavern that stank of alcohol and unwashed bodies, dimly lit with greasy lamps. The patrons appeared to be mostly lascars – speaking drunkenly in their native tongue, they ignored the newcomers. Evidently, the violinist was a regular, or at least, recognizable – he was instantly ushered into an alcove. "Whisky," he told the serving girl – she nodded.

James fingered his sleeves – it was a nervous habit. The violinist seemed content to lean back in his wooden chair, the case balanced in his lap, and watch him. Without the banian around, he was feeling a little at a loss as to how to start up any sort of conversation. "Er…" He sighed. "What would it take for you to forgive me?"

The violinist arched an eyebrow, but stayed silent. James bit his lip, and looked down at his hands. When the whisky came, he drank a large gulp, feeling the warm burn down his throat.

Eventually, there was a wry chuckle. "What would you do?"

"Anything," James said, and found that he meant it.

--

Beckett considered the man sitting opposite him at the small table. The marine looked like he was on the verge of some sort of nervous breakdown. Fingers picked constantly at the sleeve, he couldn't hold Beckett's eyes, and the dark rings spoke of little sleep. And the pain – there was a frightening amount of pain, in the fever-bright eyes and the trembling lip. He hadn't noticed that before, when he hadn't been forced to sit in relative intimate quarters with the marine.

Damnit. He felt bloody guilty.

As much as it had been a betrayal, it had rather turned out to be lucky for him after all. The priest was useful, and actually interesting, which was more than what Beckett could say for much of his race that was based in Calcutta.

Still, some latent sense of cruelty – or at least, a mulish decision to have as much of his revenge as possible – kept him from simply telling the man what he wanted to hear, which was what he felt anyway. To be honest, he really wasn't angry with the marine any more, over that issue. He was angry at the marine for being so bloody _intriguing_, in a way that Beckett had sworn to himself, in England, before leaving for India, never to find another man so again. Not after having to leave his homeland for a faraway country in disgrace, with an insulting pittance of an allowance and the family heirloom (stolen).

It was the damned music and the damned violin. It drew people to him, those with a like soul, others it simply enraptured. The natives called it a gift from a Goddess, and were for the most part content to listen. His kind, however… had inconvenient attitudes to music, nearly as inconvenient, in his opinion, as their attitudes regarding sodomy.

_What would you do?_

_Anything._

The marine was looking down at his hands. "It hurts. Knowing you might hate me."

He sighed. "I don't hate you. Hating people takes a lot of effort."

The trembling lip was depressed slightly. Bitten. "But you're angry with me."

Beckett nodded.

"And you don't want to forgive me."

"Mm." Beckett poured himself more whisky.

A deep breath, then an exhalation. "It hurts."

Aided by liberal application of alcohol, Beckett sighed, and made up his mind. "I can take that away. But it must be a secret, and it will never have happened. Understand?"

The marine looked at him blankly. "What do you want to do?"

"Do you agree, or not?"

"I… I don't know what you're…"

Beckett deliberately reached forward and picked up one of the marine's hands. Turned it palm up for a moment, gently tracing sword-callused fingers with his own, roughened by the violin, then turned it palm down, and brushed his lips over knuckles. There was a sharp intake of breath. He put the hand back down on the table, and leaned back. "Understand?"

"I… yes." More quietly. "I agree."

Beckett signaled the girl over, and bought a room for the night.

--

James hesitated, when the violinist closed the door and placed the case carefully on the single piece of furniture in the room other than the bed – a small chair, in a corner. "I still don't know your name."

"I don't know yours either."

"It's…"

"I don't want to know," the man said, sharply. James ducked his head.

"But you're…"

"Safer that way," the violinist shrugged, and sat on the edge of the bed, and crooked two fingers, beckoning. The bed creaked. He arched an eyebrow, when James didn't move. "You do know what to do, don't you?"

"Eh… er…" James flushed.

An irritated sigh. "A virgin?"

The flush darkened. "I haven't… with a…"

"Really." The violinist seemed amused. "And I'd thought, you know, with the long sea voyages, and what with how it's bad luck to have women on board, and…"

"I'm an officer," James said, slightly annoyed now, despite himself.

"A midshipman," the violinist said dryly. "That's barely a step up."

"Look, if you're going to…"

The violinist unbuttoned his shirt, and pulled it out of breeches. Pale skin in the moonlight by the open window. Lamp light, from the street layered faint gold over muscle. Beautiful. Arched eyebrow. "Well?"

"It's like a… you're…"

"Oh, for Christ's sake," the violinist muttered. "One of _those_." He uncurled to his feet with a dancer's grace. James backed away instinctively, until he was pressed against the door – the slighter man simply molded their bodies together. Caught between a delicious heat and the splintering wood, James gasped. The violinist pulled his chin down, and leaned up.

The kiss was a little clumsy, though the nip, when the violinist pulled away, made him moan. Two more kisses, sweet, that tasted of whisky and spice, and James realized he had curled one hand around the violinist's waist, holding him tightly against his body, though to compensate for the difference in height he had to bend down. Elegant, sensitive musician's fingers were unbuttoning his shirt. Lips pressed against his neck, then a tongue pushed into the hollow, flicked against his Adam's apple. Hands splaying tentatively over his ribs spoke of relative inexperience, or at least a lack of practice, despite his apparent boldness.

The man pulled back, and looked him over. Whatever he saw apparently pleased him – his lips quirked. "Hmm." James found himself drowning in amused dark eyes. "Remember, _officer_. This never happened."

--

Beckett dressed afterwards, clinically, after having cleaned up as much as he could. When he sat on the dry part of the bed to put on his boots, an arm curled around his waist. There was a shift and a creak, and lips pressed against his ear. He paused, then said, coldly, "I have to go."

There was a nod, against his shoulder. A sleepy purr. Beckett looked down, and patted fingers against his abdomen. "You should, as well."

Quietly, "I want a name. Please."

"Why is it so important?" Irritably.

"Otherwise it seems so…"

"It is. It's not like I love you."

An exhalation. "Pity?"

Beckett shrugged. He wanted to say _yes_, or harsh words – _convenience _– but couldn't. "You're very handsome."

A startled chuckle. "You're…"

"I don't want to hear it."

"A name. Please. It doesn't have to be a surname, or even the first name."

"I could make something up."

"All right."

"If you're going to burden me with your name in return, I don't want a surname."

"All right."

Beckett growled. "You know what? I don't want to tell you, after all."

He was gently turned around. That damned kicked-puppy look. "Please."

He relented. "Christian." His middle name.

The shy smile. "James."

--

James was late to the bazaar – when he finally arrived, the violinist – _Christian_ – had already launched into the finale of one of Scarlatti's _Exercizi_. He applauded with the natives when they did so, hesitated, then approached after the scales, his smile a little less diffident than before. "Hi."

Christian didn't look up, packing away his precious Strad. "Good afternoon." Icy tone.

"Let me buy you lunch."

"I don't think so," Christian said, carefully, just as Ramakrishna slipped out of the tree with a "Free lunch!"

Christian glared at his banian, then stalked for the alley entrance, with a, "Fine, whatever." Or tried to stalk, anyway – he was limping. James grimaced, and turned to the banian.

"Why not you buy whatever you want, enough for the three of us, and I'd pay you back later?"

"Within limits," Christian said firmly, just as Ramakrishna brightened visibly. The man ran off, sandals flapping. Christian waited until they were alone in the enclave, then turned. "If you're going to comment on my limp, you will die."

"I wasn't going to," James said, though he couldn't help but grin.

"Hmph." Christian lowered his head, sighed, then limped back to the tree, and sat down gingerly in the shade. James sat down by his side, backs against the trunk, stretching out long legs. "Isn't this biting into your salary?"

"A little," James admitted, "But at least I don't have to support a family. Some of the other midshipmen do."

The violinist sighed. "I was hoping you'd go away."

"I can't," James said, looking down at his boots. "I tried, when you were… after the Reverend… well. I couldn't."

"Yes, it does happen to be a problem," Christian stroked fingers over the case, lovingly. "Something about the music."

"It's not only the music, not by far," James said, honestly. "I think I…"

"I don't want to hear it," Christian said, sharply. "And I mean it."

The midshipman's lip curled, and he lowered his head. "Right. Sorry."

--

The days were improving. The cinnamon profit was far larger than even Ramakrishna had imagined, and they had secured some connections in England. With the help of the Reverend, his position with the Company had improved dramatically, and he was beginning to gather backing for his idea of trade in tea. Ramakrishna began to talk of buying new houses, rather than the small pucca house they shared, too near a thoroughfare.

Against his better judgment, he was also meeting the midshipman every Wednesday after Kalighat for drinks, which seemed to inevitably lead to sex. James was a fast learner and a conscientious lover, and Beckett knew that he was developing an addiction. Perhaps, if given time, one to rival his love of his Stradivarius, and just as destructive. The violin called to him every moment of the day, demanding to be played. The recitals every lunch were not so much vanity as necessity.

James, on the other hand… asked for nothing, yet everything. Shy smiles, and startlingly gorgeous green eyes. Heartbreaking gentleness. Beckett knew he should stop.

The next time James left to battle the French, Beckett found himself playing far too many sonatas in minor keys, was teased playfully by his banian, and came to a decision.

--

James suspected something was wrong when, on the Wednesday of the week of his return, instead of being led to the tavern he followed Christian down different streets, up to a small pucca house against a now-quiet thoroughfare. Christian produced keys from his coat, unlocked the door, and motioned for him to enter.

There was surprisingly little furniture that James could make out in the dark. His curious glance was aborted when Christian began to walk up the narrow stairs to the second floor, beckoning to him. A narrow corridor, that smelled of ghee, then a door. A small room, with a window, that only had space for a bed – really a cot – and wardrobe. Christian closed the door behind him, and pulled him into a kiss.

Later, James was curled in the cot, supporting Christian's weight on top of him, stroking down a sweaty, naked back, admiring the elegant arch of the spine to the firm rump. His hand was slapped away, playfully, and there was a weary mutter, "I'm tired."

James nodded. He shifted slightly, to hold the other man in the circle of his arms. The enclosed space made the scent of sweat and sex heady. He didn't think he could sleep, just yet. And he rather thought he knew why he had been brought here. "You're moving."

There was a nod, against his chest. "In the morning. We negotiated the purchase of another place, it's just been finished."

"Oh." James kept his replies neutral, hoping that he wouldn't have to listen to what he knew was likely to come next.

No such luck. "Listen," Christian said, quietly. "I think this has to stop."

James exhaled.

"It's already gone too far."

James pushed his nose into Christian's hair, refusing to speak.

"It's dangerous."

"I…"

"I said I don't want to hear it."

"But you know?"

Christian chuckled, a little hollowly. "You think I can't tell?" A musician's sensitivity. "The way you look at me. The way you touch me."

"Then?"

"In this world, James, the ones without power are those who have the least freedom to do what they want."

"And you're saying, once you have this power…"

"Then maybe… maybe I'll be willing to listen to what you want to say."

James sighed, and rubbed his arm over his eyes. His lips moved into a brittle smile. "What if I no longer want to say it, then? At that point?"

Christian shrugged. "I'll take that chance."


	4. Chapter 4

_I won't sing of amore _

_It don't sound sincere _

_Love is a cliche _

_But it fits not here _

_I'll disappear_

Beckett wasn't sure he could get used to having servants. Not to mention disturbingly reverential ones. It seemed that when Ramakrishna had put out notice of employment, there had been a mad rush of people who were very, very interested in serving the man with Saraswati's gift.

He was also certainly not very sure what to make of the ascetic white man with the reptilian eyes that the Sevayats at Kalighat had presented to him, saying that as he possessed Saraswati's gift, it was fitting that he was protected at all times by a follower of her aspect of destruction. Or so Ramakrishna had translated, when he wasn't busy being hysterical. For some reason, the white man – who had introduced himself, in an inflectionless voice, as "Mister Mercer", scared the hell out of the merchant. The man hardly ever spoke, he did whatever Beckett asked him to without complaint or comment (be it fetching letters, tea, or, out of curiosity, spying on certain members of the British elite in Calcutta).

"What _is_ he?" he finally asked Ramakrishna, when he had sent Mercer out to obtain something suitably obscure (strawberries in Calcutta… hah!).

The man whimpered, looking around shiftily. "Eheh. Ayyy, you might want to ask that less loudly, sah."

"Trouble?"

"Eheh… not really…"

"Not really?"

"Trouble to anyone who might be trouble to you, yes… eheh…"

"Ramakrishna…"

"Have you heard of _tuggee_, sah?" Ramakrishna's shoulders slumped.

"Only very lurid accounts back in England," Beckett said dryly, "Which were fed to anybody about to migrate to India." He blinked. "I thought… but Mister Mercer isn't Indian."

"Eheh… well you know… there are three ways to become _tuggee_, and only one of them sort of, you know, involves you being Indian… can we drop this topic… ayyy…"

"They're assigning me an assassin as a bodyguard?" Beckett said, aghast.

"Not just any assassin… eheh…"

"What do you mean?"

"… ayyyyy… don't kill me…"

"Ramakrishna…!"

"I see his coin when he show you… I notice you don't understand… he not just _tuggee_, sah… he _jemadar_… leader of a group… please don't tell him I tell you… I don't want to die before I get married… ayyyy…"

Beckett blinked. "Why send someone like that?" And he had told this… _jemadar_… to go to the bazaar and look for strawberries. Good Lord.

"Affiliated with Saraswati… you will have enemies… eh…" Ramakrishna looked a little apologetic. "_Tuggee_ be servants of Kali… she speak to them through omens, a lot of ritual… perhaps she speak to him, tell him to protect you."

"Enemies?"

"Those who think it's, well, blasphemous, since you be white man… or those who are Saraswati's enemies… ayyy… many. And white men, in Calcutta. We rise fast, maybe. Rich quick. That makes enemies."

"But this… this moniker is only that – a damned nickname! I don't feel touched by the Divine!"  
"The Brahmin accept you as so… eh… Kalighat recitals… if Brahmin accept you then… eh… I am Vaishya, eh…"

Beckett sighed. "This is getting out of hand."

He didn't blink, when Mercer returned with strawberries.

--

James smiled faintly, wryly, when he saw Christian at the docks. He moved away from overseeing the men load up his luggage, and approached him. The violinist looked out of sorts – breathless, sweating, and disheveled. The glare, however, was still steely. "You didn't tell me."

James nodded.

Christian lowered his head, and exhaled. "When does the ship leave?"

"Few hours."

"Come."

James found himself dragged down some streets and into what looked like another _adda _house. They sat at a table, and coffee was ordered. Christian's glare returned. "Explain." Tight anger.

"I've been promoted to Lieutenant."

"I can see that from your clothes."

"There's an opportunity in Jamaica, once I settle some affairs in London. Possibilities of a quick promotion in the future, perhaps even to Commodore. Faster than here."

"You're not explaining."

James sighed, and picked at the braid on a bucket cuff. "Christian. You said – those without power, have no freedom to do what they want."

Dark eyes flickered. "And you're leaving, to seek that power."

"Yes."

A bark of harsh laughter. "You'll never have power. Not that sort of power. You're in the Navy."

"We'll see," James said, evenly.

"You're a fool." Christian whispered, and raked fingers angrily through his hair.

"An impatient one," James agreed.

"How long?"

"As long as it takes."

A choked laugh. "Somewhere in between, a man like you. You'll love someone else."

"Christian. If you tell me not to go, I won't." James said, quietly. "But I will want something in return that you can't seem to give. You can't even give me your name."

The violinist sighed. He nodded at the serving boy, when coffee arrived. "Can't you wait? Just a few years more."

"It's been half a year and I'm dying, Christian. Seeing you nearly every day, but not being able to…" An exhalation. "I can't handle a few years. And if I stay, I can't help but see you. Listen to your music. It's killing me."

"I see." Christian murmured. He reached into a pocket in his breeches, and drew out something silver. Clapped it on the table before James. A plain cross, on a chain. "It was my sister's. Someday I'll want that back."

James smiled, and picked it up.

--

The gamble in England paid off. Beckett found out about it when Ramakrishna burst into his office in Fort William with a wild whoop and embraced him tightly.

When the man calmed down, Beckett asked, dryly, "So, how many children are you naming after me?"

Ramakrishna laughed. "Ayyy, maybe all of the girls!"

The years had been kind to the banian. The dhoti and sarong may be plain, but were of finest weave, and he was beginning to develop a paunch. He could also no longer scale the tree at the bazaar without some difficulty. Beckett found he liked expensive clothes, and fine wine, and had begun to collect a stable.

With the ludicrous profit, he could probably start purchasing breeds from Araby…

Then he would settle business to his satisfaction in Calcutta, invest in some other parts of the world, and then go to London, and begin the process of searching out the location of a Lieutenant with gorgeous green eyes.

Politics in Calcutta had changed him. He found himself colder, more ruthless. Ramakrishna was useless in that regard, in the building of power in the white man's arena. Mercer, however, was something else altogether. Beckett had already found use for his more specialized ability several times. He had silently made an anonymous donation to Kalighat.

"Hey? Anyone in?" Ramakrishna was waving a brown hand over his eyes. "Didn't faint, did you?"

"It's a shock," Beckett said, mildly.

"Eh, eh… that it is. Come. We go lunch."

"I'm due to play."

"After that, then. My treat."

"Really? I have to be dreaming, then."

--

Beckett was speaking to the handler in his stables about the best way to gain the trust of the bad tempered, skittish white colt when he spotted Ramakrishna waving at him from the outside. He excused himself, and walked out into the fresh air. "What?"

"Friendly as always," Ramakrishna grinned. He had the glow of an expectant father. The second wife was a renowned beauty, though, and he was still trying for a girl (to Beckett's amusement). He waved a piece of paper under Beckett's nose. "Guess who made Commodore, in Jamaica."

Beckett snatched the paper from him, looked at the name, then looked up at him with narrowed eyes. "How did you…"

"I'm not stupid, sah," Ramakrishna said dryly. "You haven't looked at any woman since. Or man. So I did a few inquiries, you know… eheh… since I don't know what to get you for your birthday this year… but I thought you might like to have this early. It was a little difficult to find someone without having his name, but I had a few lucky breaks."

"Oh." Beckett felt speechless. "Thank you."

Ramakrishna clapped him on the shoulder, and laughed heartily. "Don't need to look like that, hey! You change my life. And when you leave… eheh… you can trust me to keep the business doing good, on this end. Your horses, too. Write you letters."

"What makes you think I'm leaving?" Beckett's lip quirked.

"Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but I think you leave sometime," Ramakrishna winked, and clapped him on the shoulder again. "Ah, the springtime of love… ayyy… don't kill me…"

--

James, it seemed, was capable of the oddest indiscretions.

Beckett led Caesar, now an adult stallion, his mean temper tamed into a haughty spirit, onto the _H.M.S. Cormorant_, headed for Jamaica from Southampton, the papers in his embroidered coat seeming to burn through the wool. Correcting those indiscretions was going to take some genius.

And it seemed it was entirely possible he could also fully repay the person who had robbed from the last ship of cinnamon and coffee bound for Cathay what he was due.

--

James was filthy, and he had changed. The meekness was gone, as was the open smile – his expression was guarded, now, and he slouched. More lines across the forehead, and likely more scars, not all of which could be seen. The tattered blue coat made a further mockery of the man, but his arms were folded, and he wore a smirk that Beckett wasn't used to seeing.

Thankfully, he had the good sense to act as though they had never met before. Which was true, in a sense. James had known Christian, the poor violinist-merchant. Beckett had known James, the marine with the shy smile. James likely didn't recognize Lord Cutler Beckett, in his fine clothes and the now habitually cold sneer – Beckett didn't recognize James Norrington, ex-Commodore, pirate by necessity.

Beckett motioned to Mercer, who nodded and ushered marines and other hangers-on out of the office, closing the door behind him. His eyes fell to the rather disgusting, pulsing bag on the desk, and grimaced slightly. It would probably leave a stain. When he looked back up at James, however, it was with a faint smirk, and an arched eyebrow. _Well?_

James exhaled, and stood a little straighter. He reached into his coat, and took out a slightly battered looking but still recognizable silver cross, which he placed on the table. When Beckett made no move to reclaim his property, he chuckled, picked it up again, and this time, put it around his neck. As he navigated the catch, he asked, softly, "Do you still play Handel, Christian?"

Beckett smiled. "I don't appreciate audiences."

-fin-

Notes:

_Adda_: Informal discussion – adda culture was long discussions over food, said to have originated in Kolkata (Calcutta), but has been argued to have been traced back to Plato in Ancient Greece.

_Banian_: "In 18th century Bengal, a banian was an independent trader who came forward to help servants of the Company when they first arrived in Calcutta. All servants of the Company engaged in private trade and the banian became his partner and sometimes even advanced capital to start the enterprise. But apart from that he also provided various other services: acting as an interpreter, finding a house, servants and even procuring a sleeping dictionary (a wonderful euphemism for a native mistress)."

_Castes_: Mentioned in the fic: Brahmin (religion… learning… er, it's hard to describe), Vaishya (merchants, landowners).

_Chal chal_: Come on

_Chapter_: Spelled Chapterr above to reduce confusion – meaning 'strange, foolish, naïve'.

_Chariya_: Insanity

_Kalighat_: Kalighat temple's current form was built in the 1800s – it was previously a hut by the river. One of 51 temples where it is said that parts of the Goddess Devi fell onto Earth – Kalighat temple is the site of the big toe. Kali is the Goddess' aspect of destruction.

_Saraswati_: The Goddess Devi's aspect of music and the arts, among other things.

_Stradivarius_: A Stradivarius is a stringed instrument (famously, a violin) crafted by any member of the Stradivari family, especially Antonio Stradivari, highly prized by musicians, and of late, only affordable by banks. They have a unique sound, the secret of which is still a subject of ongoing debate. If you're really curious, youtube has an interesting documentary on the subject, as well as a recording of yo-yo-ma's work on a Stradivarius cello.


	5. Silver Cross

James the marine was strangled by additional brocade, and a brown wig.

Norrington the Commodore drowned at sea.

Norrington the _ex-_Commodore, pirate by necessity, watched a man (who wore a face that James-the-marine had known) smirk, and wondered which part of himself he would now have to kill. If there was indeed anything left to kill. The world was visceral to Norrington-the-pirate, and he noticed: half-lidded, enigmatic gray eyes (the ice in them was familiar. Ice, Calcutta, spice, phuchka); the still, too-casual silent killer outside the room (out of sight never meant out of mind); the lingering scent of afternoon tea, ink. Civilisation. Elegant, violinist fingers. The silver cross at his neck felt uncomfortably restrictive.

He wondered if, like himself, Beckett-the-Lord had killed Christian-the-violinist, buried him alive, perhaps, under reams of paperwork, suffocated by ambition. It was too easy to let go, up until the core of 'self' was too linear to suffer pain. Norrington wondered how his current self would have to die…

Lord Beckett (how amusing, that one year spent in an attempt to learn this man's name, so long ago in Calcutta, would culminate in coming across it as a mention on his death-warrant, and not realizing it – Cutler C. Beckett) smirked. A pale cheek against a palm, the other hand drummed a brief rhythm on the desk that a shred of James-the-marine identified as Marini.

The revelation hurt. Visceral: his eyes stung, his teeth clenched. The silver cross was now heavy. Breathing was a little more difficult. His palms itched (even though, he supposed, it really should be wrists, and ankles).

Suicide didn't hurt, resurrection, on the other hand… Norrington pushed his mouth into an answering smirk, a little too late. Gray eyes widened, and Beckett uncurled to his feet, delicately ignoring the gently pulsing bag on his desk. He forced himself to resist the urge to back away, as his personal space was carefully invaded (expensive clothes never did get along well with sandy, muddy, sweat-soaked blue wool). Violinist's fingers, curiously stroking stubble, daintily tugged down his chin. Cool lips. Chaste, experimental, really. The faintest ghost of a warm tongue. Something within him gave a little.

Norrington-the-pirate found himself speaking in a lazy drawl. "The wig doesn't suit you."

He was expecting the smirk (Lord Beckett) but it was Christian that replied, with dry wit that James had missed (ten years) and Norrington had never had to listen to. "Without it I seem to have a problem being taken seriously."

Startled, he blinked quickly. "Christian."

Christian cocked his head, fingers still inquisitively petting at rough facial hair. Playing with textures. "What?"

"You've found power."

"And you still enjoy stating the obvious."

"Didn't you just state the obvious by saying that I liked to…" A smirk.

"Semantics." Pursed lips. "Whatever did you do to James?"

"He…" Norrington began. Fingers pressed against his lips.

"_That_ was rhetoric," Christian said. Fingertips, tracing his moustache. A gentleness that seemed uncharacteristic of rigid poise.

"Tickles," Norrington complained. No. That was James. Christian smiled. Something in his chest twisted, uncomfortably. Ice in his belly.

"You," Christian said, a little distastefully, delicately wiping fingers on the cleanest portion of Norrington's white shirtsleeve that he could find, "Need a bath."

--

Norrington sat before the mirror, crisp, clean white shirt, half-open to show silver against flesh still flushed from the bath, soft breeches. Arched an eyebrow at Christian's reflection. Brown shirt rolled up to the sleeves, embroidery crinkling the folds. The wig left forgotten on a table, the silky, unruly curls of mahogany brown hair completing the transformation. Christian poked at his chin again. "Like the beard?" A drawl.

A slow blink, then a smirk. A razor was pressed into his hands. "Do you still remember how to shave?"

"Don't be ridiculous." A warm blade, hot water, lather, and a sense of self, slowly shredded and restitched by his own hand.

--

"So. Are you going to put me back in the Navy, or I do get to be a kept man?" James grinned. Slouched in a plush chair, Norrington-the-pirate, resisting the impulse to put his feet up on the expensive desk. The chain no longer itched.

"I do hope that was rhetoric," Lord Beckett said mildly, at the other end, signing dispatches. "And it depends entirely on whether you're still housetrained." That was Christian, James decided, and then knew that names were just that. Names. For the same thing. Staying true to oneself, however facile and shallow that sounded, was merely refusing to let anything go. James wondered if that hurt.

--

"What happened to the Stradivarius?" James asked, when he caught his breath. Dim light from the lamps of the distant street painted a faint gleam on the silver cross, as he held it up. Fresh air from the window, mingling with musk and sex.

There was a mutter beside him, something about 'bloody terrible pillow talk', and James laughed, rolling over to the side and pulling the slighter body flush against him. Ignored the indignant squawk and the wriggling. Gray eyes, narrowed in a glower, over a slender shoulder marred with a reddening bite. "I don't want to tell you."

"Hmm." James pressed a kiss to the bite, and then ducked under the sheets. Held down slim hips as Christian struggled to sit up, ran a warm tongue over a limp prick. Salt from previous exertions. Again. A twitch. A yelp, from the sheets, and fingers at his hair.

"_James_." A growl, then another yelp. "Bloody hell. James. We just…"

"Mm-hmm." Mouth full, can't talk.

Later, Christian passed an arm over his eyes, and grumbled, "It's in the drawer of the desk in my private chambers, you bastard."

"Play for me."

"I don't do requests, I don't think I can move right now, and, _and_ I've decided that I hate you. Good night."

James chuckled.

Strange. That didn't hurt.

--

Christian leaned against the table, after breakfast, balanced the Stradivarius against his neck. Bach's No. 2 in A major. Dolce. Notes that flickered like the sun over the sea. James felt something within him give a little more, and fingered the silver cross at his neck. The third day.


	6. Unworthy

**Title**: Unworthy  
**Fandom**: Pirates of the Caribbean  
**Pairing**: Beckington  
**Rating**: NC17  
**Warning**: Slash  
**A/N**: The missing smex scene from Full Circle, for auroraknight (something's wrong with spacing on my LJ / can't post comm/user links). Posting with Firefox for the first time... horrible things seem to have happened to spacing. TT oh well.

Written for 31days.  
October 14: Cure for the itch

A/N: tt I really like Christian!Beckett, even though I do enjoy reading/writing BDSM Beckington…

Oct 14

Cure for the itch

Unworthy

-_Port Royal, Lord Cutler C. Beckett's Offices of Trade_-

The unworthy thought struck him – after the fourth glower over a stack of official East India Company dispatches (this one in response to a very faint, playful grin) – that insofar as Lord Cutler Christian Beckett was concerned, their relationship was all about scratching the occasional need. To put it crudely.

James considered this, slouching a little in the too-soft guest chair, allowing the monotone drone of the visiting Vice Admiral of the Red to drift over his head. It was an utterly undeserving idea, James knew – logically, at least. Hadn't Christian put in an impressive amount of money and effort to retrieve him from the tangle he had wrought of his life? Hadn't he seen the man (currently patiently and coldly arguing a fine point about Naval trade policy with a stubborn Vice Admiral) without a stitch of clothing on, in his bed, under him, whispering his name with that seductive hitch in his tone?

All right, as self-addressed lines of reasoning went, that latter was a little too explicit for polite company.

Still… well, even with regard to their potentially watching enemies, and that what they were doing was highly illegal, and possibly even giving allowance to the fact that Christian was not by nature affectionate… outside of the bedroom, Lord Beckett's affected air of distant contempt with which he regarded the entirety of his species extended equally to James – only Mercer (and presumably, Ramakrishna) seemed nominally exempt. Even within private chambers, Christian was never demonstrative in any way – in fact, save for their first and last trysts, in Calcutta, he was also never the one to initiate… sex.

Not that they did really indulge often in that, nowadays. Too dangerous, Christian had said. Most of the time, they only shared lunch, occasionally dinner, and sometimes breakfast. Meals. Other than that, they were both workaholics, and…

"Commodore Norrington," Lord Beckett said, flatly. "Daydreaming?"

James blinked, with a guilty start. "Er…"

Surprisingly, it was the Vice Admiral who came to his rescue. The old officer glanced out of the window, then at a pocket watch, and smiled benignly. "It's my fault, I'm afraid. I'm a little long in the tooth, in my old age, and I didn't realize it's really time for tea."

Lord Beckett stared at the Vice Admiral for a moment, then smiled – more of a sneer, really – and clapped his hands. "Mister Mercer." As the retainer bowed, and left the room, he looked briefly – very briefly – at James. Thoughtfully. Then back at Vice Admiral Wilson. Catlike patience. Finally, with the slightest hint of condescension in his voice that suggested that he was only doing this for appearances, he asked, "How's the weather in Boston?"

James was contritely polite during tea, but was dismissed afterwards, along with the Vice Admiral. As he accompanied his superior slowly down the curving stairway to the reception, the Vice Admiral said, "I've met my share of cold fish over the years of my life, but that one can probably freeze boiling water." A good-humored smile, as Wilson navigated the first step with the absent-minded, slow grace of the elderly.

James found that he was feeling abruptly defensive, but he had the sense to keep his reply neutral. "But you've met worse, sir?"

"Oh, that I have," the Vice Admiral said, happy to oblige young'uns with stories. "The last Governor who passed through Boston…"

-_Port Royal, Lord Cutler C. Beckett's Private Chambers_-

"You've been distracted all afternoon," Christian observed, in between finger exercises on his Stradivarius. He stood by the curtained window, having shed wig and coat, sleeves rolled neatly to elbows – James leaned against the table, in shirt and breeches, legs crossed.

"Sorry," he settled for saying, studying instead the lingering scents from dinner and the mellow satisfaction of a full belly.

Christian eyed him for a moment, as he played a scale (D Major) picked out in a series of perfect, enthralling notes, then turned his eyes back to his fingers, as they limbered up over catgut. "Some thoughts really shouldn't be entertained in the company of old men with weak hearts."

James flinched. "How did you…"

A smirk. "Well, I didn't. I guessed. But now I know." More soberly (D Minor), "Your eyes soften. And you were smiling at nothing. We can only hope the Vice Admiral thought that you were contemplating some pretty skirts around town."

"Oh." He flushed. He hadn't been aware that his body had betrayed him.

Christian glanced at him again, absently, then exhaled, lowering the bow. The beloved instrument was packed away, and he pulled himself up onto the table, next to James, clasping hands loosely over his knees. "Why do you have this driving urge to complicate things?"

"I was just thinking."

"Thinking is fine. Getting upset over 'just thinking', however…"

"I wasn't upset."

Christian snorted. "Give me some credit." He looked down at his hands, peering at scrupulously clean nails. "Want to tell me?"

"Mm." James twisted, and slipped arms around a slim waist. Pulled the other man up against him and pushed his nose into bound, dark brown hair. Christian stiffened, then seemed to force himself to try to relax, leaning into the embrace – tension written into the slightly hunched shoulders. "It's not important."

An irritated snort. "Should I even grace that with a reply?"

"It's not even logical."

"Come now, James. The suspense may kill me, and the last version of any will and testament I care to remember left everything to Ramakrishna. The shock and happiness of a doubling of his wealth might kill _him_, then you'll have two deaths on your conscience."

The quip drained his hesitation. James brushed lips over a forehead, then, rather haltingly, and almost inaudibly, sketched out the unworthy thought. Christian frowned, eyes unfocusing as he considered it, then nibbled at his lower lip.

"Angry?" James asked, finally, when the silence began to stretch.

"What? No," Christian blinked, and smiled. Amused. "Amused."

"Amused?"

"I didn't realize that you felt I wasn't paying you sufficient attention," Christian drawled, prodding James in the chest.

"Well," James hedged, "That wasn't really it."

Something about how Christian's jibe rather hurt – in a sort of nascent way he couldn't pin down – must have showed, because the slighter man relaxed further, like a boneless cat. When he spoke again, it was very softly. "James. This is how I am."

"I know," James said, and kissed him with all the gentleness he could muster. He heard what Christian hadn't said: _I don't like snuggling after sex, or meaningful glances in public; you'll never get roses on Valentine's – the cross is about the most sentimental item you'll ever receive from me, we'll never hold hands – no, not even in private; you'll never even hear me speak to you gently. You will never, ever hear me tell you I love you; I will never be able to treat you like I should. This is how I am. _

This was how he was, that it had never mattered.

-_Calcutta in rem_-

The first time – their first time – had been couched in whisky and verbal sniping, and took place in a seedy room in a forgettable inn down an alleyway in the melting pot known as Calcutta. James remembered being nervous – more nervous than he had ever been in his short life – confused, relieved, upset and utterly in love with a man whose name he didn't even know (though he didn't realize it at that point in time). As such, he felt he was hardly to blame for freezing up – trapped between a splintering door and a warm body rubbing against his own.

There had been the requisite answering hunger that burned within him, the need – but he had been able to do little else than to kiss Christian back when kissed (a little clumsily) and look at him helplessly.

Christian had looked amused, but to his credit, hadn't commented further (though James could tell he really wanted to) – it was entirely possible that if he _had_, James would have simply been unable to continue, out of sheer embarrassment. The sharp emphasis on _officer_ had been bad enough – instant guilt, that. He had never meant to sound patronizing, but an attempt to ask Christian whether or not he had, in fact, sounded so, was swallowed in a groan as slender hips bucked a brand of heat against his thigh, spiking shards of desire through his core.

He had been right about one thing, though – James recalled, caught in a dizzying riptide of need-want-lust – the confused pain from the past trying week was gone. James wanted to tell Christian this, but warm lips kissing a path down neck-collar-chest-(oh _god_ he'd never thought that could be sensitive) was a little too distracting, and he shut up (verbally, anyway. He _did_ distinctly recall, with some embarrassment, letting out a sound that was definitely a whine, and arching).

At that point, Christian had laughed (rather undeservedly, James thought). "Sensitive, or never before?"

Caught by those clear-glass gray eyes, James had answered, breathlessly, before even thinking about it. "Never before." Then he blushed, when Christian arched an eyebrow.

"Really. But you say you've had experience with women."

"Well… that's… that was…"

Christian (sadistic streak in the man, James decided) had watched him stutter for a moment, smirking, before bending his attention to the other nipple, effectively cutting off any retort he could care to frame. A flicking tongue, lapping, then a light suckle. James remembered whimpering, fingers clutching at shoulders and silky brown hair, his body moving by its own volition, a thigh pushed between thighs, a gasp and a shudder from the frame pressed to his own.

He remembered reversing their positions, pushing Christian none too gently up against the door, pulling legs around his waist, and pressing desperate, hotly possessive kisses onto sweetly responsive lips, thrusting abortively against breeches. Hitching moans, and glazed gray eyes – so beautiful.

He remembered the rather clumsy attempt to imitate Christian's ministrations, how as he shifted and supported the violinist's weight it felt like the other man was far too light to be really healthy. Ribs. Wiry flesh, but the ribs – he could see the ribs. The life of a poor merchant-violinist was not easy, it seemed, despite his condescension regarding any form of unearned financial aid. He had wondered how many lunches Christian would let him buy, had calculated how, with some judicial expenditure, he could likely afford it out of his midshipman's pay.

He remembered the wry laugh as Christian murmured "This really isn't very comfortable, officer," and his slightly incoherent apology. They hadn't been able to move to the bed quite fast enough – it creaked, under the weight, and Christian had said something about how he hoped the floor was of better make – something hitching in _his_ voice as he quipped told James that, even if he didn't show it, the slighter man was just as nervous as he was.

Logic had dictated that clothes were unnecessary. That being done with, he sat back on his haunches and studied the sprawled body before him with something close to awe, hands resting lightly on jutting hips. Without his formless shirt and breeches Christian's slim waist was almost feminine; elegant violinist's fingers loosely flat on cheap linen, velvety skin… He realized he had been caught staring, when his gaze trailed up to deeply amused gray eyes. Christian had opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it, settling back down onto the mattress, opening his palms to either side in an invitation for James to do whatever he wished (he had moaned, at that point).

After a thorough exploration of the slighter body with lips, fingers and teeth (writhing, gasping, so pretty), James had decided, as it were, to get to the crux of a man's pleasure and tentatively licked the sticky head. The startled yelp and the involuntary buck more than made up for the not-too-pleasant taste – James had smiled, a little playfully, and proceeded to massage the hot flesh with his tongue, languidly, guided by whimpers and mewls, up until fingers tugged urgently and desperately at shoulders and hair. He had looked up into a prettily dazed face. "Oil. Coat," Christian had managed to grit out.

James had affected, even in his need, to look puzzled. Christian had stared at him, in disbelief, and then rolled over with a groan. "Don't tell me you seriously don't… good _Lord_… know what to do, with a… with a…"

Holding the straight face had been difficult, but James felt that the then-nameless violinist had it coming. "Um." Shyly. "Perhaps if you tell me?"

The bubbling laugh building within him choked out, unfortunately, in the midst of a clenched-teeth and terribly clinical instruction of what he had to do with oil and fingers, and Christian had growled, furious at the deception, and tried to get up. Pinned under a quickly moving heavier frame, however, he had stopped struggling. Eventually. James had let the single, drab pillow swallow the last of his laughter, then felt it well up again, when Christian had hissed, "You bloody son of a _bitch_," right in his ear.

It had taken a lot of contrite kissing to smooth down ruffled feathers, and he had submissively taken the oil as instructed. The soft, slightly strangled gasp as he had pushed in the first slicked finger made him freeze – the frown and the glare made him continue, probing gently, spreading. At the second finger, awkwardly twisting, Christian, with gritted teeth, had said, "A little deeper. Curl… curl your…" and then had quickly muffled a choked yowl against his arm, his body jerking. Interesting. James crooked his fingers again, but this time, the violinist had been ready – there was a mewl, and an arch.

When he finally pushed slowly into the tight heat, he remembered being peripherally surprised that it could fit. He remembered heavy breathing, and open-mouthed gasps from both, either. Waiting for Christian to adjust had been blissful pain. Finally, there was a nod, and an impatient buck, and he moved, slowly, wary of hurting the slighter frame, rocking into the snug glove until fingers clawed down his back. "I won't break, you know."

"If you're sure." Doubtful.

Irritation. "I'm _sure_. Now. Harder." Ankles had slipped up to his shoulders. Obliging had been sheer relief, giving in to base lust and something far more primal, a savage urge to possess – no rhythm, only a sensual medley of balls-deep thrusts interspersed by shallow snaps of the hips, into a heat that seemed to swallow all thought altogether in a maw of jarring pleasure. It took some experimentation to find the angle that hit whatever it was within the violinist's body that gave him such pleasure – but when he did, an added note of desperation, in the other man's cries, rewarded him.

He saw Christian's hand slip down to the ignored shaft and pushed it away, shifting his weight onto his other hand, freeing up the other to grasp the flushed prick and handle it a little more roughly than he intended. Mewls into strangled wails. Rippling tension, then a final, choked cry beneath him, satiation mingling with sweat. The tremors dragged his own ecstasy from him from every nerve, every sense, leaving him coughing and panting, trembling above the other man.

When he managed to pull away and roll to his side, noticing Christian's wince with a guilty flinch, he knew, watching the erratic rise and fall of the violinist's chest, that he was going to spend the rest of his life attempting to snare this other man. And then he would never let go. That in the end, if he stood before his Maker to be judged, if he could say that all he ever did with his life was to love one other person with every aspect of his soul, every fiber of his being, he could stand proud.

That was how he was, that it had never seemed puerile to feel so.

-fin-

Notes 

The missing Full Circle smut scene, for auroraknight. Lol. The theme 'Cure for the itch' instantly brought up smex ideas, I'm afraid – though usually, as you'll probably know, it's really referred to as 'scratching' the itch. Oo; Though cure can also mean alleviate (at least according to Microsoft Word!)…


	7. Mesh

**Title**: Mesh  
**Fandom**: Pirates of the Caribbean  
**Pairing**: Beckington  
**Rating**: PG13  
**Arc**: Full Circle  
**A/N**: Follows Full Circle. [2,597 James finds it difficult to reconcile his world with Beckett's. For sweetphaex's Beckington slash challenge.

Full Circle  
Silver Cross  
Unworthy

[A/N: I got lazy with the challenge and decided to leech off another one of my previously 'finished' stories: Full Circle, and add the Cane (I can't say it's full title -.-) into the arc. wtf the formatting died. Apologies to everyone for only JUST noticing.

Full Circle  
Mesh

"Weren't you supposed to be about Montserrat, Commodore?" Lord Cutler Christian Beckett's voice was mildly rebuking, sparing James only a brief, cool stare. Beside him was the ever-present Mercer, riding a common brown gelding whose placid temper was at odds with Christian's proud stallion.

Caesar eyeballed James, snorting accusingly, recognizing the Commodore as the cause of its interrupted run. The stables were relatively quiet, set a short carriage ride outside Port Royal proper, but James looked around quickly for possible eavesdroppers before muttering, "Christian. Montserrat was a red herring."

Beckett smirked, his face turned down to regard his impatient steed. "I am hardly to blame if the Spanish privateers do not see fit to wait about for the Navy to visit them, am I?"

James forced his temper back under control, difficult when the balmy weather added an additional layer of aggravation, stifling even in his Commodore's undress uniform. He had wasted the morning of his arrival back in Port Royal first looking for Beckett in the East India Company offices, where none of the other visiting Lords seemed to know where he was, and frankly, seemed somewhat relieved that he was nowhere about. "_Christian_."

"_Lord_ Beckett, Commodore," Beckett corrected with his routine ice.

James found himself in the unenviable position of being both eyeballed by Beckett's horse _and_ the pet assassin, and had to take another deep breath.

"If you would have me run your errands you could at least endeavor to make them such that they would not prove embarrassing in front of my men." James said as patiently as he could.

As much as his particular happily-ever-after had, for the most part, proven indeed highly satisfactory, there were the inevitable snarls that derived from being with one of the most difficult and enigmatic personages that James had ever had the misfortune to meet. With curls of chocolate-brown hair slowly turning unruly from the wind, however, dressed in a black riding jacket with a pale blue lining and gray jodhpurs, his face and fingers all elegant, soft aristocratic lines, Christian was really unable to look properly intimidating, which was likely why Mercer was present beside him. And evidently Christian recognized this at exactly the same time he did: he scowled, when James' irritation smoothened into a wry smile.

"I will see you back in the offices, if you wish some sort of explanation for your inability to root out a few privateers," Beckett said as coldly as he could, inclining his head to Mercer. "Escort the Commodore back to the fort."

"Yes, sir." Mercer dismounted, holding his gelding's reigns in one black-gloved hand, nestled in the flow of his white sleeve cuffs. "This way, Commodore."

Beckett murmured to his horse and pressed heels to Caesar's flanks, prompting the stallion to surge into an easy canter, heading towards the manicured field that served as the exercise course, from where they were at the moment: the dirt track leading towards the stables proper. The field was surrounded by a ring of elegantly trimmed trees and shrubs, a picture of Englishness under the Caribbean sun that likely cost a considerable amount of money to maintain.

"Busy?" James asked Mercer, hoping he wasn't too obviously stalling. Beckett's horsemanship was a pleasure to watch, and it was the only instance outside of private chambers that his expression ever slipped out of his icy guard. However, he had never previously observed Mercer riding out with Beckett save when Beckett had other company: the assassin was competent on a steed, but there was no horseflesh hereabouts to compare with Beckett's purebred Araby.

"Can't say, Commodore." Mercer never called anyone else but Beckett sir, and his Cockney accent added a layer of insolence to his tone of address to everyone else but his master that could have been intentional, and he was as taciturn as possible. He seemed about to say something else, then he tensed, jerking his head to the side, frowning and thrusting the reins of his horse into James' hands, then starting forward towards the line of high shrubs.

James' eyes widened when he saw Mercer somehow slip tiny silver throwing knives into the palm of his hand. "Mercer!"

_Everything_ happened at once. There was a startled gasp, loud even over the background snorts of exercising horses, and the crack of a rifle, then Christian's cry of shock and sudden pain, tumbling off his rearing stallion. Scarlet splashed on Caesar's white flank. James dropped the reins and ran forward, just as there was a quavering scream of pain, from the shrubs, and the sounds of a struggle. Stamping hooves and a slight form: James dreaded the worst, but Christian rolled on his back and whistled shrilly. Caesar froze immediately, whinnying and pricking its ears back, trembling and bleeding from a graze on its flank, lowering its head to nuzzle its master's hand.

Christian was panting, his face pinched in pain, the gray cotton fabric over his left thigh staining crimson, cursing alternatively in English and an Indian dialect as James pulled him clear of hooves and shouted at the grooms to fetch the doctor. "Caesar... how's Caesar?"

"Much better off than you," James said, a little more sharply than he intended, and Christian smirked at him despite his evident agony.

"Went clean through the leg. Where's Mercer?"

"Sir." Mercer was pushing a plump, flushed man before him, arm twisted behind his back and a stiletto against the fat folds of his neck. The man's free hand had one of Mercer's throwing knives embedded in the wrist. "Lord Ponsenby."

"Ah." Beckett somehow managed to look imperious despite being half-cradled in James' arms and bleeding profusely, even with the Commodore's attempts to put pressure on the wound with his hastily removed cravat. "I never thought you would be this sore at what was merely good business, Ponsenby."

"It wasn't _merely_ business, you little rat," Ponsenby snarled, despite the blade against his flesh. "You _ruined_ me!"

"Theft is a terrible crime, Ponsenby, and I am quite afraid that us English lords look down even further on theft against each other. Your taste for curious artifacts could have been legally indulged. As it turned out, it became a mere tool in the little Machiavellian game we East India lords play against each other." Beckett's sneer was thin, even as the grooms brought the vet, who looked apologetically at Beckett and opened his bag. Scissors and bandages and alcohol. Beckett glanced at Mercer, pointedly, then at the grooms, his voice steady despite his obvious pain. "Take him away to the gaol at the fort, gentlemen."

--

James managed to admit himself to Christian's chambers only when the doctor had finally left. Mercer's reptilian stare seemed even more disapproving than normal, but the assassin stood aside to let him through, then nodded and left, closing the door, when Beckett waved a dismissal at him from the bed. Christian looked paler than normal, eyes a little dilated, leaning comfortably on a luxury of cushions while balancing a ledger book on his good leg, dressed in one of his prim, high-necked fine cotton nightshirts. "James."

James sat on the edge of the bed, absently tugging at his cuffs. "Can I get you anything?"

"I feel I have had more than enough of listening to that question for today. I do happen to be of fairly robust health, despite all apparent evidence to the contrary," Christian said dryly, his voice a little slurred from laudanum, scribbling notes in the edges of the book, occasionally inserting in yellowing pages from the stack of papers on the bed. "By the way, Mercer was a little upset with the effect of your interference, so I suggest that you give him a little distance, for a while."

"_Upset_? Because _I _ruined your game of bait?" James took another deep breath. He tended to do that fairly often when Christian was in certain moods, and this seemed to be one of them. "I didn't see the... Lord Ponsenby, and all I saw was Mercer slipping one of his knives into his hand, I didn't even _think_ for a moment that you would get hurt, and..."

"You're babbling, James." Christian's voice softened a little, but it was already too habitually ungentle to contain comfort or affection; even almost an age ago, in Calcutta. "Certainly we did not think that you would be in attendance."

"You intended to have Lord Ponsenby killed all along." The revelation brought with it a little revulsion at the fleeting glimpse of his partner's considerable ruthlessness. "That's why you sent me on that wild goose's chase to Montserrat."

"Admittedly, I did not quite think the bastard owned a rifle. The idiots who let him onto the grounds with such a weapon would be fired once I have their names." Beckett turned a page in the ledger, not even bothering to verbally admit to the allegation. "It was pure luck that Mercer's good aim combined with Ponsenby's atrocious one resulted in a minor wound for Caesar."

"Have you no concern for your personal well-being compared to that damn horse?" James knew he was losing his temper again, stressed from the Monserrat incident, the residual cold fear from the memory of Christian falling from Caesar, and now Beckett's refusal to take his injuries seriously. Beckett merely favored James with an unreadable stare, until the Commodore sighed, and looked down at his hands. "Sorry. It's just... sorry."

"We live in very different worlds, you and I," Christian spoke quietly, after a long silence, and though his tone was unforgiving it was not unkind.

"I would have at least thought that... some degree of mutual dependence would suggest those worlds meshed, if but a little." James didn't turn around. _If but in their most important elements._

"Worlds where the definition of 'good business' involves people like Mister Mercer, James, will never be able to mesh with yours." Beckett turned another page. "And I am far too guilded to the Company to leave it, even if I wished to."

"Then," James twisted his body to lean close, placing a hand next to Beckett's hip, blocking the book, lips an inch from the slighter man's, "This world?"

"I try never to mix what's personal with business," Christian closed the ledger carefully and put it by his side, then leaning up to claim a brushing kiss. James tasted lingering bitterness, from medicine, and the faintest hint of cognac. "Matters tend to become fundamentally inefficient."

The hum that James made in the back of his throat could have been wry assent, as he brushed nibbling kisses down Christian's pale neck.

--

"The doctor _did_ recommend a period of convalescence," James pointed out reproachfully, when at breakfast, amidst kippers, Mercer presented a walking-stick to Christian along with the silverware. It was more of a gentleman's cane than anything else, of dense oak tipped in a knob of silver, embossed with the East India Company logo.

"Nonsense." Christian poured himself a cup of tea, and heaped sugar into it without even looking. "Mere inconveniences do not warrant creating considerable ones."

"Of having your work moved the short distance from the East India offices to your domicile."

"Naturally." Beckett smirked. "Besides, it would simply not do for the other lords currently present to get too overjoyed by my absence."

Mercer cleared the remnants of breakfast efficiently from the small, circular rosewood table, and left the dining room of Beckett's decidedly modest home. Despite the accumulation of elaborate paintings and various curios from East India trade territories, the house managed to look fairly unlived in. It was, however, well-designed: the dining room opened into the green lawn and the trimmed shrubs through frosted French windows.

"Not even for a few days." James felt resigned.

"No, and you are ill-placed to correct me. Were our situations reversed, I doubt you would be one for extended rest," Christian sipped his tea primly, leaning the cane between the crook of his elbow and the frame of his rosewood cushioned chair. "And weren't you supposed to be upset with me?"

"You mean last night, before we were distracted?" James tried his sly smile. Christian returned it with a cool stare, his lips thinning when the Commodore chuckled, pouring a cup of tea for himself: black, no sugar or milk. "It's very difficult to stay angry with someone when you're busy having your way with him."

"And I had thought the pirate in you well and thoroughly strangled by now." Christian's voice was glacial.

"My father _was_ in the East India Company, up till his death," James pointed out more soberly. "It's not like I'm wholly ignorant of the existence of what you call your 'little game'. I had just hoped you wouldn't involve yourself to this extent in it... but I suppose I had already suspected as much from the beginning, on my return to Port Royal. Somebody with clean hands wouldn't employ a man like Mercer. I'd made my choice then, and it hasn't changed."

"But you don't like it."James inclined his head, buttering himself a slice of toast. "I do not profess to understand the necessity of a world where assassination is a bargaining tool, Christian. However, I do understand the futility of trying to drag you out of it, as much as it would for me to try and leave mine. But no more pointless trips out into the Caribbean."

"My, you're demanding during morning-afters," Christian muttered irritably.

He grinned. "Play something on your Strad for me. Bach."

"Certainly _not_."Christian looked adorable with the cane, despite a growing habit to use it to gesture at things he wanted; very much the proper, haughty English lord.

--

James fielded a few more cold glares in response to occasional slips into wry smiles. Mercer took a week or so to return to his usual state of indifferent insolence, and at that point James decided it was prudent to ask the one question that had been nagging at him ever since he had returned to Port Royal.

After dinner in Beckett's residence, with petit fours and coffee (more oversweetened tea, in Christian's case), he inquired, "By the way, what happened to the heart?"

"Put to good use, I can assure you. Ramakrishna had been complaining that our trade ships seemed to be favorite prey for pirates." Christian drained his tea delicately. His dinner jacket was oxblood in hue, his sleeves and cravat start white at the gold-embroidered collar and cuffs. "Now he can sleep easier at night and grow ever more portly."

"Ah." James felt a little disappointed. That seemed a far too mundane use for something so uniquely curious, but at that point Beckett put the cup down, and clapped his hands. Mercer materialized, efficiently clearing trays, then returned with a familiar battered case.

"It surprises me why you've never changed that," James commented, when it was placed on the table and carefully unclasped by Christian.

"It's a reminder of beginnings," Christian replied, uncurling a little painfully to his feet with the help of the cane and leaning against the arm of his seat, tucking the Stradivarius from the violin case under his chin. Mercer left the room and locked it. "And far more hygienic than my old banian's souvenir. One of his old dhotis."

James chuckled, and the rest of the evening was sketched in Haydn.

fin


End file.
